


The Deep Also Gazes

by abysmalblack (distantgreen)



Series: The Desert and the Walker [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Blood, Breaking Things, Fighting, Hate Sex, Kass has a lot of issues ok, M/M, Malz being Malz, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, dat Kass, what can i say, wrecking Kassadin's house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6398581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantgreen/pseuds/abysmalblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He turns around slowly, brain still trying to screech at him about what a terrible, awful idea this is, and there's Malzahar staring at him from the middle of his living room, pulling off his cowl and scarf and throwing them on the floor, his glowing gaze a little bit wild and dangerous.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep Also Gazes

As soon as they're both through the front door of Kassadin's home, he kicks it shut sharply with his foot, wincing a bit at the loud slamming noise that follows. He'd rather not draw the entire neighborhood's attention to what's probably about to transpire, but he hopes that with his well-known (and somewhat notorious) League-related activities, no one will look too suspiciously on the occasional loud bang from his house.

There's a cut on the exposed portion of his left arm that's bleeding, dripping onto his carpet now, and as much as he would like to do something about that first, he has a suspicion he won't be given such spare time. He turns around slowly, brain still trying to screech at him about what a terrible, awful idea this is, and there's Malzahar staring at him from the middle of his living room, pulling off his cowl and scarf and throwing them on the floor, his glowing gaze a little bit wild and dangerous.

He stalks up to Kassadin and swiftly and carelessly yanks the large helmet from his head, paying little attention to how rough or unpleasant the action may be. Kassadin had tried, once, an agitated hiss at him to be more careful, but that seemed only to increase Malzahar's ferocity, so he's learned to let it be. The prophet continues his merciless undressing, flinging pieces of armor onto the floor, paying no attention to how they might be scraping over Kassadin's injuries, and without any mind as to where or how they land, until he finally has Kassadin fully naked from the waist up.

He pauses for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, eyes running hungrily over the pale blue skin, and Kassadin looks away with some mix of embarrassment and irritation. He knows it's unappealing, no one's touched him once since he became this way (except Malzahar, some tiny voice in his mind reminds him, but he ignores it), and he wishes Malzahar wouldn't humiliate him by staring like that. Malzahar seems to sense his thoughts, because he shakes his head, licking his lips as he raises his gaze to Kassadin's face.

“I like the color.”

Kassadin shudders. Of course Malzahar likes it, but for all the wrong reasons; because it reminds him of the Void, of the way it corrupted Kassadin, of everything it's done to torment him ever since. He does his best to bury the statement away and never think of it again, to never question if there was any other intent behind it, because for his own sanity, there shouldn't be.

His observations seemingly done, Malzahar moves forward and fists one hand into Kassadin's long hair, the other going straight for his ass and squeezing the firm muscle in an unrelenting grip. He yanks Kassadin's head towards his and their mouths meet with an angry clack of teeth, and it's vicious and feral, nothing like a kiss should be. Malzahar shoves his tongue into Kassadin's mouth and traces it along his teeth, and it tastes like the Void, Kassadin thinks, like nightmares and dark, distant memories that he tries so hard to forget. He's already half-hard from their fight before this, and as Malzahar bites down on his bottom lip with no gentleness whatsoever, he can feel the heat continuing to pool in his abdomen, and he finds himself loathing his own weakness. They pull apart for a moment, and there's saliva hanging between the two of them, but with a flick of his tongue, Malzahar breaks the thread and licks it away.

His mouth redirects its attention then to Kassadin's bared neck, and he bites down suddenly and sharply, teeth cutting relentlessly into soft blue flesh. Kassadin hisses through clenched teeth at the sudden spike of pain and feels Malzahar grin against his broken skin. He knows it's always a fine line they walk between fighting and fucking, regardless of which side they happen to sit on at any given moment; one never knows when Malzahar might slip back into full-on fight mode in situations like this, and so Kassadin can only exhale sharply through his nose and hope that Malazahar's bites don't escalate into tearing through an artery.

There hasn't even been adequate time for Kassadin's brain to come down from the pain of the bite before Malzahar moves sharply again, shoving Kassadin's body backwards until they slam into the front door, the force of the impact causing it to rattle in its frame. Malzahar leans in, pressing his teeth into Kassadin's shoulder and dragging them along slowly. His body is pressed flush against Kassadin now, trapping him against the door with that unholy strength of his, and Kassadin can feel the foreign erection that's pressed up against his thigh. The roaming teeth stop for a moment, finding a fresh bruise and pressing down into it, and Kassadin slams his head back against the door in pain, not failing to notice how Malzahar's cock twitches appreciatively in response. Malzahar grinds against Kassadin then, once, slow and measured, his head raised and eyes glinting deviously.

Their eyes lock, and for a moment Kassadin feels a sudden surge of nausea, a series of still images flickering wildly through his mind; a woman, screaming in terror, familiar shadows snapping dark and cold against the light of the sun, and Malzahar's eyes, laughing with some of the most genuine joy that Kassadin had ever witnessed.

The pictures fade as quickly as they had come, and the disgust Kassadin feels at himself subsides slightly. But once again it's as if Malazahar saw everything that passed through his mind, because he chuckles quietly, moving one arm to palm Kassadin's hardening cock through the layered fabric of his robe.

“You know,” he whispers, breath hot against Kassadin's ear, causing the Void walker to shudder in response, and Kassadin tries not to think about whether it's arousal or disgust that makes him do so. “I think of that day so often.” Malzahar's fingers shift, running his thumb against the head of Kassadin's dick as best he can manage through the thick folds of fabric. “Once I'd lost your pursuit, afterwards, all I could see in my mind was the look on your face.” Another grind against Kassadin's body, much rougher this time. “Never in my life have I come so hard by my own hand.”

Kassadin snarls. With one hand preoccupied with Kassadin's crotch, Malzahar's ability to contain him against the door is less than what it was a few seconds ago, and Kassadin takes advantage of the momentary weakness. He moves one of his legs, hooking it behind one of Malzahar's and jerking it against the back of his knee. Malzahar's balance falters, and he starts to stumble backwards, but Kassadin moves with him, using the continued momentum to propel them forward several steps until they finally reach the coffee table in the center of Kassadin's living room. Malzahar has regained his composure by this point, however, because as he falls back onto it, he fists his hands tightly into the robes hanging around Kassadin's waist, pulling the other man down with him.

The landing is harsh and ungraceful, Kassadin reaching out to brace himself and wincing at the impact against his wrists, his knees banging against the edge of the table. A drinking glass and various books that had been resting on the table go sliding off in all directions with a rapid series of thumps, interspersed only by the crash of glass shattering and clattering against the floor. Kassadin tries to ignore it and hopes the shards don't find their way into his feet before he can clean later, and he looks down, hair brushing loosely against Malzahar's face. It takes him a moment to orient himself and he realizes that his arm is still bleeding, drops falling onto the front of the other man's vest.

Malzahar follows his gaze and seems to decide that it's about time to take it off anyway, so he arches his back off the table, sliding the clothing off of his shoulders and moving his arms behind his back, slipping it off the rest of the way. Kassadin can't help but watch the way Malazahar's abdomen tightens and flexes with the movements, tanned skin stretched over that lean, perfect body, the runes on his shoulders glowing faintly as always. He's already covered in a thin layer of sweat, and Kassadin has the sudden and inexplicable urge to taste it, so he bends over, pressing his tongue against Malzahar's bellybutton and tracing one long, slow lick back up to his neck. He expects it to taste of despair and unthinkable horrors, the way Malzahar's mouth tastes, but he is surprised to discover that it reminds him only of Shurima, of a desert sun in an afternoon sky and warm grains of sand tickling against his feet.

The confusion must be visible on his face as he raises it, because Malzahar looks more amused than he should under these circumstances, and Kassadin's anger flares when he sees the prophet's expression. He doesn't pause to think then, and some instinct not particularly concerned with self-preservation takes over; he loops one arm under Malzahar's waist, fingers digging tightly into the skin, and with a surge of energy he riftwalks them both off of the table, landing with Malzahar pinned between himself and one of the walls in the room. He flips Malzahar around, slamming him face-first into the wall, and reaches to drag his pants down off of his hips.

Kassadin's brain regains some functionality and he is immediately aware of what an unbelievably stupid idea this was, but he doesn't even get a moment to properly regret his choices, the laughter that's about to bubble out of him freezing in his throat as Malzahar does what Kassadin should have seen coming. The air shimmers, seeming to darken, and Kassadin finds himself suppressed, his breath faltering and his body ceasing to respond. Malzahar slips around behind him, turning the tables and shoving the Void walker up against the wall. Kassadin can't see what's happening behind him, can barely stay conscious and focused as it is, but he hears the rustle of clothing, followed by the sensation of gloved hands dragging along his hips, ripping off his own robe and tossing it aside.

He's a little surprised Malzahar is actually holding the spell for this long, but with his brain addled by magic, Kassadin thinks that maybe his sense of time is all wrong, that maybe it's only been one or two seconds. Whatever other thoughts he has are lost just then, because out of nowhere a gloved hand lands with a sharp smack across his ass. He tries to gasp, wants to make some sort of noise, but he's still suppressed, and the effort is pointless; he can't even breathe, let alone make any sound. The hand on his ass squeezes it once, then releases, and slaps the same blue cheek again, harder this time.

“That,” Malzahar's voice comes from behind him, low and dark and filled with an angry sort of lust, “was not a wise decision, Void walker.” Thank you, I know, Kassadin wants to say, but he's still frozen, and Malzahar strikes him again, over and over, first one side and then the other, and Kassadin very quickly loses count, lost only in the stinging sensation he feels every time Malzahar's hits land against his ass. His cock is painfully hard now, trapped between his stomach and the wall, but with the suppression there is nothing he can do, not even the slightest movement he can make. Malzahar must definitely have been holding the spell for a long time now, Kassadin thinks hazily, because he can feel his lungs burning and the edges of his vision starting to darken, threatening to black out.

Just before he thinks he's finally going to lose consciousness, the spell drops, as does Malzahar's hand, and Kassadin finds himself gasping for air, knees threatening to buckle as he leans into the wall for support. Two hands grab his ass from behind, kneading it roughly, and the fabric of Malzahar's gloves feels like sandpaper against his hot, flushed skin. He groans, and his hips try to jerk against the wall, but Malzahar's grip tightens, holding him firmly in place. One of the hands leaves his ass, replaced by the strange sensation of cool air against his skin, and he chances a glance over his shoulder, body still trembling slightly.

Malzahar is looking at him through his bangs, completely naked now except for his gloves, and Kassadin runs his eyes down along his body, eyeing the long, hard cock against the background of smooth, perfect skin. His attention is immediately drawn upwards again, because Malzahar is lifting his hand to Kassadin's face, offering him one of the fingers. Kassadin understands the intent behind the gesture and catches the fabric between his teeth, pulling it free. The glove falls to the floor, and Malzahar's hand is immediately on Kassadin's face, grasping his jaw in a firm grip. He finds two fingers being shoved into his mouth, and he bites down on them as they slide past his lips, then runs his tongue along the digits. Malzahar is watching him intently, his heavy breathing clearly visible, and Kassadin lets his eyes slide shut as he sucks against the fingers.

But Malzahar seems to be nearing the end of his already limited patience, because the fingers are gone soon enough, saliva trailing after them as he pulls them out. Kassadin turns his head back, settling his arms against the wall in front of him and leaning his forehead against one forearm (he is grateful, later, that he didn't choose the bloody one, though he's too far gone to pay attention at the time). A moment later, one of Malzahar's fingers is probing at his entrance, while the gloved hand gives his burning ass yet another loud smack. Kassadin shudders as the finger goes in, burning unpleasantly from the lack of proper lubrication. He grimaces and tries to relax as it's followed all too quickly by a second, and then Malzahar's fucking him slowly with his fingers, his other hand alternating between slapping Kassadin's ass and squeezing it roughly, striking in time with the rhythm of his fingers, the glove harsh against the abused skin.

He hates giving Malzahar the pleasure of being even a little bit vocal, but Kassadin can't help himself, as small moans and gasps escape him with every panting breath. Finally Malzahar removes his hand, and Kassadin hears the sound of spitting, followed by a guttural moan that he assumes can only be Malzahar running his hand over his own cock. A moment later Kassadin can feel something much bigger pushing against him, and he clenches his teeth as Malzahar enters in one swift, relentless movement. This is the part he hates most, he thinks, that he can feel so complacent and full with Malzahar's dick inside of him, that he can moan so desperately at the sensation, even with the discomfort being what it is and the nausea bubbling in his stomach again. Malzahar leans in against his back, breath coming in hot puffs against Kassadin's skin, and he uses his tongue to lick at the shell of Kassadin's ear at the same time that his hips slide back slightly, snapping back against Kassadin's with a merciless thrust.

Kassadin bites down on his lip and groans, his hips twitching backwards against Malzahar, who seems pleased with the response and grips Kassadin's hips with both hands, hard enough to add new bruises to the indicators of battle that already linger on Kassadin's skin. He wastes no time setting his rhythm, hard and fast and unforgiving, the room filling with the loud sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, Kassadin's body grinding into the wall with every movement. He's not quite sure when it started, but he notices dimly that Malzahar is biting the back of his neck, and he really could care less about the danger anymore, his brain having a hard time hanging on to whatever complaints it was trying to formulate.

The pounding stops momentarily, causing Kassadin to growl in irritation at the delay, but Malzahar adjusts the angle of his thrusts slightly, hitting just _there_ with the next one, and Kassadin immediately cries out  in response. He hasn't dared to touch himself since getting into this position, because he has a suspicion that Malzahar would not approve and he's pushed his luck enough for one day, but he thinks this is all he needs, he'll come just from Malzahar fucking him ruthlessly like this. It doesn't take much longer for that to happen, his thoughts blanking out with it, and it takes him a moment to realize that the painfully loud cry he can hear is his own. He's lost in that dazzling whiteness for a few seconds, his cock pulsing his release all over the wall, and as his senses finally start to recover, he feels something wet running out of his suddenly empty ass and down the insides of his thighs, indicating that Malzahar's finished too. Glancing downward, his mind processes the mess smeared along the wall, some unsettling combination of his own blood and come, and he grimaces at it, because cleaning that up along with the rest of his house is going to be a wonderful task.

No longer trusting his legs for support, Kassadin turns around carefully, leaning his full weight against the wall and slowly sliding his body down until he drops his ass on the floor with a painful wince. His hair is sweaty, sticking awkwardly all over his face and neck, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He looks out between the strands to see Malzahar, naked except for a single glove, sitting against the armrest of his couch with his arms crossed and watching him with a very calm and satisfied expression. He seems to be glowing even more brightly than he was when all this started, Kassadin thinks, and he's hit with a brief mental flash of sand dunes and sunlight which he hastily suppresses.

“Get out,” Kassadin mutters. The statement is sincere, and maybe there is even venom behind it, but he's far too tired for it to carry the weight of any sort of threat. A snort and an eyeroll are all he gets in response, and Malzahar throws off the one remaining glove and wanders off into the bathroom. Kassadin slumps sideways and lays down on the floor with a deep exhale, listening to the sound of running water. It's not long before Malzahar returns, but Kassadin closes his eyes then, not watching as Malzahar moves around the room, gathering various pieces of clothing so he can dress.

The carpet against his face isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, and there's blood drying all over his body, but he can't be bothered to care about either at the moment. He finds himself slipping dangerously close to sleep, the post-orgasm warmth relaxing him into unconsciousness. At some point the sounds of Malzahar's movements stop, but they're immediately followed by the front door opening, and Kassadin breathes a sigh of relief as he hears it clicking shut.

The last of his concerns evaporating from his mind, he finds it exceedingly difficult to stay awake, so he gives up and settles for sleeping on the floor. He'll deal with the mess later.


End file.
